


Sharing is Caring

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: And Also Everything, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Making Out, Movie Night, Popcorn, References to anxiety, Sleepovers, banter off the charts, martin overthinks romantic cliches, theyre both chubby in this one because i say so, this is probs top end of t there is some heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25404220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: ‘This is crap,’ Martin decides as the little black-and-white man on Tim’s telly rails against the reds for the fifteenth time.Tim looks at him over his popcorn, eyebrow raised. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘that’s the point.’He failed to mention the point was the movie being crap when he’d proposed a sleepover.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 24
Kudos: 129





	Sharing is Caring

**Author's Note:**

> i once again continue writing martim get together fics
> 
> re the anxiety warning: its canon typical martin spiralling and poor self esteem. its not as bad as other stuff ive written, pretty minimal, just there as its his perspective. i do use some language like 'insane' and 'mental' when talking about anxiety. its part of the internal monologue, doesnt reflect my own views. like im k*nning im projecting i know what this feels like. theres also a throwaway reference to being 'sectioned'. again, similar tone, i just wanted to pre-warn you.
> 
> also yes they r both chubby.... brings them nothing but joy ....

‘This is crap,’ Martin decides as the little black-and-white man on Tim’s telly rails against the reds for the fifteenth time. 

Tim looks at him over his popcorn, eyebrow raised. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘that’s the point.’ 

He failed to mention the point was the movie being crap when he’d proposed a sleepover. In fact, Martin distinctly remembers him promising a truly cinematic experience. Relaxing, he’d said it would be. ‘Listen,’ he’d said, ‘why don’t you come relax a bit at mine instead tonight? I’ve got some great old film noirs, and popcorn and blankets-’

He is sharing the blanket, to his credit, and has provided beers. But the popcorn is clutched close to his chest, and the script is laughably stilted. Martin doesn’t really mind, it’s a whole lot better than the old document storage. He is actually relaxed, squishing a dent into Tim's sofa and sinking into it. It’s nice to laugh at something crap, get away from the basement with all its stressful shadows and lonely nights. Still, he’s not going to give Tim the satisfaction of praising his taste. 

Martin rolls his eyes. ‘We should have watched _Dead Poets’_ ,’ he insists. 

Tim groans and shoves another handful of sweet-and-salty in his mouth. ‘For God’s sake Martin-’ he says as he chomps, ‘ _Dead Poets’_? We’re supposed to be cheering you up! Haven’t you got enough depressing gay poetry at work?’ 

Martin smacks his thigh. He doesn’t have to stretch to - Tim is leaning against the opposite sofa arm so his legs are curled up in the dip in the middle, toes over the line onto Martin’s half. 

‘Shut up,’ he scolds, but he’s maybe a bit happy Tim’s trying to cheer him up. He knew it, really, but it’s nice to confirm. 

Tim’s always doing that - being nice in his own, chivalrously funny way. Usually his strategy is the pub, but tonight it’s something (maybe) a bit different. Tonight he had opened his front door inwards, arm a bit wobbly as he’d thrust it wide in a sweeping gesture and promised ‘ _mi casa es tu casa_ and all that.’ Yeah, maybe it’s a bit different? Martin normally doesn’t bow to wishful thinking on the rare occasions that good looking men tell him jokes, but Tim seems to have no problem flirting at or for work. Maybe it _is_ wishful thinking but Martin wouldn’t be surprised if he was trying it on, talking about sleepovers. Wouldn’t be surprised at all, really. When he entertains the idea it feels inevitable. It’s a compliment, for sure. If he is. No doubt it would be fun...

No. No that’s... first of all _wishful thinking, Blackwood_ , and second of all Tim is his friend. He is being _friendly_ , he’s being a good _friend_ , and here Martin goes disparaging it, cheapening it. It’s kind of offensive really, isn’t it, to go assuming Tim tries it on with everyone. Shouldn’t make assumptions. But what if he does?

Martin dreads it a bit, actually. If it comes. Having to say no to something that- well... Tim has a reputation. Or at least the fact he has the whole local records office round one finger and isn’t even out of pocket for it is a testimonial in and of itself. So it would probably be good. But Tim is his friend and a bit of fun might not ruin things for _him_ , but it’s not something Martin's much good at. So whether or not he’s right, whether or not he’s possibly being a bit presumptuous, he’s got to say no, doesn’t he? 

‘At least it’s good,’ Martin insists. (About the movie.) ‘And cathartic.’ 

Tim gestures widely, dramatically at the TV. ‘Is this not cathartic?’ He wails, then, with the voice on - ‘Are you not entertained?!’ 

Martin can’t help laughing at that, shaking his head and gesturing too at the TV. ‘It’s crap, Tim!’ He says, his arm mirroring Tim’s, wide and theatrical, taking up space easily. 

He feels easy here. Yeah, much better than being stuck wracking his brain for poetry in his sleeping bag. He’ll admit it - Tim is very smooth, very good at this. This? Friendship. He’s very good at friendship. He’s sweet, offering blankets and letting Martin take up easy space in his space. He is notoriously good at the rest though, isn’t he?

The little thrill at the idea that he might try something, do something, put his hand out or throw Martin a more obvious line than he has even up to now, zips up Martin’s spine with a high crackling. He’s not sure how much of it is anxiety, how much excitement.

‘Yeah,’ Tim grins, ‘you’re not answering my question though, are you?’ 

He pokes Martin’s leg with his toe to punctuate his nagging. Martin tries to look serious as he groans and pushes Tim off. To his credit, Tim takes the rejection laughingly and swings his legs down, heads into the kitchen. 

He returns with two more beers and pops the caps off by smacking them on the lip of his coffee table. It’s a bit impractical really, it might leave a mark, but he doesn’t seem to care. His hand splays out over the top of the bottle as he does it, tightening the tendons over the back and down each of his knuckles. It is maybe just a bit attractive. 

‘There,’ he says, handing one to Martin and clinking them together, ‘new rule: you drink every time he has a go at the communists.’ 

‘Right...’ Martin says slowly. The protagonist has so far said little else so he’s wondering if this is Tim’s plan to get him drunk enough to forget work exists. 

‘And,’ Tim goes on dramatically, ‘any time you cringe, I’ll catch one of these-’

He chucks a fluffy piece of popcorn in the air lightly, and catches it in his mouth with a smug grin that plumps his cheeks and wrinkles his chin as he chews. 

Martin agrees, and almost immediately is set chugging beer and pulling off overflowing foam as the detective kicks off on the McCarthyism again. He cringes as the bubbles spill over onto Tim’s sofa, and Tim laughs - ‘ _ah, there’s the first one’_ \- offering him the bowl of popcorn as promised. They pass an entire fight scene back and forth, Martin at first gently tossing and eventually lobbing popcorn into Tim’s mouth, which is stretched wide open like a baby bird to form the target. When they make one it’s a celebratory whoop and another clinking cheers. 

‘Teamwork makes the dreamwork,’ Tim says as he sips beer. 

Martin takes advantage of the win to stick his hand into the popcorn again, this time for himself. But Tim smacks it away. 

‘Uh, this is reserved for champions actually-'

‘Oi,’ Martin slaps his hand back, ‘sharing is caring!’

Tim imitates the detective on the telly. ‘Filthy red.’

Martin scoffs, lunging his hand towards the bowl. ‘Too bloody right, did you forget I’m from Manchester?!’

Tim grins, holding the bowl out of his reach and laughing at Martin’s grabby fingers. He shakes his head happily, and digs his hand back into the bowl. ‘Catch then,’ he says, chucking a kernel at Martin. 

It bounces off Martin’s cheek and he instantly puts his hands up to protect himself from the following pot shots. ‘Tim!’ 

Tim just laughs, hand scraping against the bowl as he chucks another couple of kernels in fast succession. They hit, sticky, salty, caramel against Martin’s hands, fall into his lap, and cling to his jumper. His yelps go ignored and Tim’s laughter is infectious, so he gives up defence for giggling. 

‘Oh, you-!’

Martin picks the bits of popcorn off him and lobs them back at Tim, who opens his mouth again to catch them. 

‘Ew, Tim, that one’s got jumper fluff on it-’

‘Here,’ Tim insists, still laughing as he chews, still chucking popcorn and shuffling closer, ‘you’re not trying-' 

He aims better then, and Martin scoffs at him as he laughs and laughs and relaxes enough to give in to the game. He leans forward, opens his mouth to try and catch the rapid fire popcorn. Tim’s aim isn’t bad and he isn’t far away but the fluffy flakes still bounce off Martin’s lips, leaving them sticky and salty, hard shells of kernel clinging on even through his grinning. 

‘Come on!’

‘I’m trying - throw better!’

‘Catch better!’ 

Martin clucks his tongue in mock outrage as Tim throws an entire handful in his face. His hands scrabble to pick up as many as he can and volley them back. Back and forth and back it all goes flying, close range, until their knees are practically touching in the dip in the middle of the sofa. Fingers tangling, knuckles knocking together as they scramble for grains to throw until they’re breathless - breathing sweet into each other’s fighting space. Laughs slow down to gasping chuckles. 

They’re quite close. Tim has a curving bit of kernel shell clinging to his pink, salted lip like a piercing. The sharp corner of it presses in a bit, into the plump like teeth would. 

‘You’ve uh, you’ve got popcorn-’ Martin starts quietly, but he doesn’t finish the sentence, shakes his head to clear it. 

‘Oh?’ Tim tries to wipe it but it holds on stubbornly like it knows how lucky it is. 

It’s so cliche Martin almost rolls his eyes. ‘No, it’s still-’

‘Go on,’ Tim breathes. 

His mouth has fallen from its smile into a slacker shape, bottom lip hanging low enough that the wet inside of it is visible, reflecting the lamp light and the flickering TV. It is an absolutely ridiculous situation. And he looks ridiculously gorgeous with his popcorn-lips and his inky bloody lashes lowered almost to his cheeks. If Martin wasn’t holding his breath he thinks he might sigh at the fact he’s actually getting suckered into doing this ridiculously romantic thing but - 

He reaches up gently to push the bit of kernel off Tim's mouth with his thumb.

‘You’re touching my lip,’ Tim says, mouth lifting Martin’s thumb a bit as he goes to grin. 

Martin does let that sigh out then. ‘Well,’ he says, looking down but not moving his hand, ‘yeah. Very smooth of you.’ 

‘I didn’t do it on purpose!’ Tim blanches, scandalised but still smiling. 

Martin scoffs and drops his hand. ‘Wouldn’t put it past you,’ he tries to glower. Inside his gut is churning something like regret. 

‘Martin, I don’t control the popcorn!’ Tim exclaims with a bark of laughter. Then he slumps back a bit on the sofa and wipes his own mouth. He seems to think for a second, breathes a still amused snort through his nose but thinks about it. Then he readjusts so he’s sitting, rather than on his knees, gets comfortable to ask the question. ‘Do you want me to be doing it on purpose?’ 

Martin sucks in a breath and hopes it wasn’t too audible. He slumps back against the sofa too, examining the seam. ‘I didn’t say that.’ 

Tim sucks a tutting sound on his tongue and tilts his head. ‘Yeah,’ he says slowly, teasing but careful, ‘you’re not answering my question though, are you?’ 

It doesn’t look like Martin is going to get away with this. His stomach knots a bit, feels sucked up and wobbly, with both the shy pleasure of acknowledged attraction, and the guilt of knowing he’s just not fun enough, cool enough to pull this off. Still, he supposes it’s a fair cop. He did go wiping popcorn off Tim’s mouth, it’s only fair to be asked to explain himself. 

Plus Tim is grinning his kind, smirking grin that feels fun and exhilarating but never dangerous and Martin can’t not smile just a little bit when he does that. 

‘Maybe..?’ He admits with an upwards curl in his mouth when he says it. ‘Fine, fine, I like you,’ Tim’s grin widens into something like a bright beam and Martin rushes to pull him down before he can float away, ‘but-’

‘But what?’ Tim gasps, ‘what’s wrong with me?’ 

‘Nothing! I-’ 

‘Go on,’ Tim goads, ‘I can take it.’

‘Nothing!’ Martin insists again, somehow still bloody smiling because Tim still is. _Get serious,_ he thinks, _get bloody serious._ ‘Just - stop smirking at me! - is this...’ He hesitates as Tim schools his face obediently into something less boyish. ‘Is this a good idea?’ 

As soon as he says it he knows he sounds unreasonable. Scared. Overthinking it, as per usual. All true, but it sounds so much more insane out of his mouth than it does in his head where he’s used to it bouncing around off the walls. 

Tim frowns, looking at Martin like he’s looking at a weird piece of performance art - confusion bordering on a level of _well this is absurd_ that might become concern. He props his head up on his hand on the back of the sofa. Then, very slowly, he asks ‘what is it that you think is gonna happen here?’ 

Martin sits back a bit too, giving himself a chance to put all this into words that don’t sound insane. A chance to enjoy the last few seconds before Tim realises quite how mental he actually is and hightails it. Baggage never sounds like something heavy to other people. Anxiety, he knows, makes him sound like either a frightened child, a regular machiavelli, or just someone who really ought to be sectioned for letting the train run that fast down a track no one needed it on. 

Well. Here goes nothing. Tim is his best friend after all. With a slow breath in, Martin starts to explain it. 

‘You kiss me. We get... I don’t know...’ He looks decidedly at Tim’s knee as he decides on ‘involved,’ but can’t help glancing up and groaning at the climbing eyebrow. ‘See you’re already making a face! I don’t know! Stuff happens. Feelings. Or... not. Messy stuff. Then work is awkward. Something happens, I don’t know. I get fired, things get weird with Jon. A-and Sasha. And you- I-’ he throws up his hands half-heartedly and sighs with resignation and finality. ‘Job ruined, friendship ruined.’ 

He does look at Tim then, and meets a stunned, staring expression that’s only a touch more amused than he imagined. ‘Wow,’ Tim says, which is very grating on Martin’s already irritated nerves. 

‘Don’t tell me to calm down,’ he snaps, then blows out a sorry breath and goes on with less energy. ‘It doesn’t help.’ 

Tim puts his hands up, but the gesture is small, his fingers outstretched forward rather than palms flat. ‘Wasn’t gonna.’ 

‘Or not to think about it. Can’t help thinking about it.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ Tim shakes his head. 

For some reason he’s still sort of smiling. It’s annoying, or it should still be annoying. But it’s also a bit puzzling and intriguing and Martin frowns at him - wondering why on earth he isn’t running for the hills. 

Tim sits up a bit, like he’s re-distributing his weight to swing a big hit, and loosely drops his hands back into his lap. 

‘I was just gonna say,’ he starts. He moves calmly, but he talks with the fairy-bright tone that only comes from happy excitement. It’s completely at odds with the fading irritation and still groaning anxiety Martin’s feeling and he can’t help that his face is scrunching up in confusion. Tim blows out a fondly entertained sound. ‘What if _you_ kiss _me_?’ 

Martin blinks at him. ‘What?’

‘That big spiral where we end up dead in a ditch - I started it, right? In that scenario. So how about you kiss me instead?’

He seems so calm. Even after listening to all that actually sort of sensible bullshit. None of Martin’s stresses seem to touch him, and neither does the fact he’s had to listen to them. Martin frowns at him, studying how his expression has moved from joking to genuine, and breathes out a quiet, disbelieving question. ‘Doesn’t it worry you?’ 

He’s not sure whether he means the kiss or his own spiralling over it. 

Tim shakes his head. His brow creases minutely, but not in confusion. It’s set like he won’t even entertain there being anything to stop them, like the real upset is the fact Martin _is_ entertaining it. It’s a sympathetic sort of frown. On anyone else it might be patronising, but not on him. Never him. 

‘No,’ he says. He doesn’t move any closer on the sofa but his whole presence seems to be leaning in. Not leeringly but warmly. ‘Stuff like this doesn’t get ruined that easily. I won’t let it.’

He doesn’t say it with anything special, any force. But he means it. His whole face means it. 

Martin smiles sort of weakly, glances away from that genuine, open look. Something in his chest is fizzing like Prosecco. No - champagne. Expensive, golden bubbling champagne with that sparking noise. It’s happy, he thinks, and it’ll spill out as shimmery froth if he tries to say something back now. He’s drawn back to chance another peek at Tim, and almost snorts in awkward, disbelieving laughter because he’s _still_ looking like _that_. 

Martin throws another piece of popcorn to break the frighteningly bubbly tension. He misses - it bounces off Tim’s nose and Tim jumps, big eyes finally shutting then.

‘Hey!’ He yelps, ‘I was being deep and reassuring!’ 

Martin does snort a laugh at him then, grabs the bowl and keeps chucking kernels high into the air until Tim shakes his head and starts trying to catch them again. 

Eventually he makes a lucky shot and they both actually whoop with laughter. Ridiculous, childish laughter plus the up and down looks of understanding this is- oh, this is going to happen. Tim throws both fists up in triumph, not high, really they’re just either side of Martin’s head. So now he’s in a bracket, a Tim Stoker bracket and Tim is looking slightly down at him, at his mouth, and still laughing. But this time he knows. And Martin knows, and knows he has to go first, and he wants to, grinning sweeter this time. Not worried. 

He puts his hands on Tim's forearms, brings them down and into his chest before leaning in. He half expects Tim to come to him and sweep him off the sofa, but Tim doesn’t. He just lets Martin kiss him first and hums happily into it. He tastes like sweet-and-salty, then beer when he opens his mouth. 

He breathes slowly, heavily, but still doesn’t make a move other than sliding his hands up a bit. His fingers are hot through Martin's jumper, warmth spreading eagerly through the fabric’s weave. It’s very chivalrous, Martin thinks, but he wants to taste more and feel more, wants to goad Tim into giving it to him. So he pushes his tongue against Tim's lips, the last of the salt and slick caramel-stickiness tingling on the tip, and keeps pushing into Tim's mouth. 

The taste and the _finally_ makes him exhale hard into it, leaning forward after it. And then Tim groans and his hands come up Martin’s neck to cup his jaw and he seems to actually let go then. He surges, pressing forward and sliding his own tongue behind Martin’s teeth. He presses until Martin’s head is against the back of the sofa, and then still, coming even closer until he’s leaning so far sideways that his hip is resting on Martin's thigh. 

It feels good there. Ought to be closer. Martin curls his fists into Tim’s t-shirt - maybe he’s being needy but it feels good to twist the fabric as he sucks on Tim's tongue, trying to pull him over. Tim hums, low and a bit gravelled, and swings his leg over so he’s straddling Martin’s thighs. 

It’s as Tim lands with a muttered ‘this okay?’ trying to keep his mouth attached even as Martin’s nodding _yes, very much okay_ that Martin actually registers the full weight of it. Tim kisses him again and he’s really doing this - he’s kissing Tim Stoker. He’s kissing his best friend. 

It might be enough to set him panicking again except it’s good. Having Tim in his lap is good. The weight of Tim’s thighs - soft under his denim, yielding under Martin’s hands - the push of his chest and his stomach with every breath, the way they squash to fit together is good and vulnerable and human. It’s bodies, it’s not an idea of a person but how they actually feel. Intimate - the push of flesh together, the way the roll of each kiss moves through one to the other as every inch is pressed flush and flushing. Martin pushes his hands up under Tim's shirt, stroking hair and squeezing where he’s always liked but not trusted, not believed hands on his own stomach. He grabs at Tim's hips, at the roll that sits just above them and fits into his hands like it was made for them. Which it was - it was when Tim sat down in his lap and sank out of the posture that hid it. 

The knowledge of that, the feeling of it snug and safe like a dollhouse living room in his chest makes Martin kiss back even harder. He even pulls a little at Tim's slick lip with his teeth when they break apart again. 

Tim hums and it teeters so close to a groan that he laughs instead. A short, breathless thing that Martin is quite proud of actually. 

‘You keep kissing like that I’m gonna think you’re using me for room and board,’ Tim grins. 

‘I’m not-' Martin promises quickly. He knows Tim's teasing, obviously, and the way his mouth is pressed in a smile, still warm with close breathing makes him very much appreciate it. But he doesn’t want Tim to think - 

‘I know,’ Tim huffs another small laugh against his lip. He spreads his fingers into Martin’s hair, palms sliding firmly enough over Martin’s hot cheeks to pull a bit, encouraging his mouth into a happier, less worried shape. ‘I know,’ he repeats, and pushes down as he pushes their mouths back together. 

He kisses slower this time, making Martin’s mouth tingle every millimetre he ebbs away and hum when he flows back. Breath comes meditative, calm but promising against the side of Martin’s nose and his hands keep curling and stretching, in Martin’s hair, each time harder but always slow. 

It’s going to be very messed up - which is good, actually. Hair twisting round his strong, wiry fingers enough to pull a bit. Fucking hot as anything, actually. Why did Martin think this was a bad idea again? He drags his tongue without any hurry, feeling every bump along Tim’s and savouring the taste of their mingling spit. 

Slow. Achingly, or getting there. Hot with the promise not rushing brings. But held, and holding in turn - Tim’s thighs and hips under his hands, his back there to be stroked under his t-shirt. The way the air in the room (cool) and their breath (hot) hits wet mouths when they pull apart and hang there. 

‘You can stay,’ Tim murmurs. It still sounds hot enough that they both inhale a bit shakily but he goes on quickly, clearing the husk from his throat. ‘If you want, obviously. Whatever, even if you just want to sleep.’ Martin is going to kiss him, gratefully, seriously, to show him they will _not_ just be sleeping, but then Tim’s sitting up a bit and placing a gentle peck on his forehead. ‘You can always stay here, you know,’ he says quietly, matter of factly. ‘Bed, sofa. Whatever.’

It’s very real, that. He means it. It’s intimate when he talks totally seriously like that. Martin thinks he probably looks ridiculous listening to it and going red, eyes like dinner plates if they’re as wide as he feels himself staring. He goes with a joke instead so he doesn’t well up and ruin the mood with how happy mushy soft he feels. 

‘Suppose it’s a bit better than the floor.’ 

‘Well, sharing is caring, isn’t it?’ Tim grins, and goes back to kissing him. 

At some point the ads come on again and there’s no one to fast forward through them. A man is shouting about bleach and Tim leans round to grab the remote, stretching for the coffee table with Martin’s hands snugly on the soft round his hips. He nearly falls but makes it at the last second. Mutes the TV, thinks about it, then turns it completely off before coming back to again settle as close to Martin as he can get himself. 

‘There,’ he says with a happy sigh, ‘you are released from the contract of watching the rest with me.’ His hands wander up and down and up to cross behind Martin’s neck. 

‘Good,’ Martin grins, ‘it was shite anyway.’ 

And he leans up to kiss Tim’s scandalised gasp without worrying about it at all.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed :))) leave a commenté n all that x
> 
> This was done as a prompt fill for a donation to charity. you might know already but im currently taking fic commissions as a way to supplement my income doing something i love to do. you can find my post w prices n details [here](https://babyyodablackwood.tumblr.com/post/630528010471211008/ao3-fic-commissions-kofi-i-am-offering-proof) ! there's also a link to my k*fi on there. ao3 doesn't like ebegging apparently but it's there if you're interested in helping me out x
> 
> no pressure, just every little helps if you've had fun here xx
> 
> thanks for reading !


End file.
